Storms to Weather
by darkershade
Summary: When Colonel Brandon married, it seemed that his sad history was but a prelude to current bliss. But reality comes to call and mar their happiness. Will Marianne be able to conceive a child? Will Elinor and Edward survive a difficult pregnancy? Will Eliza again succumb to a forbidden love? Will figures from the Brandons' past threaten their future? Sequel to How Blest.
1. Windows Are Rolled Down

Eliza Williams sat bundled up on the swing that Mr. Ferrars had crafted for her as a rather extravagant Christmas gift and that Mr. Bhatt had fastened to the ceiling of the front porch. The February morning was chilly, but milder than it had been-a promise of spring to come-and her fresh cup of tea sat steaming on the table in front of her on the small work table she'd brought outside. She fiddled with the stitches on the rag doll she was mending for her daughter Charity, making sure they were even, her thoughts wandering on the life she had made for herself.

Little did she know when she traveled to Bath three years ago that the plans her caregiver, dear Colonel Brandon, had made for her would crumble like a too-dry scone. If things had gone according to their old hopes, she'd likely have finished school, been taken to the assemblies and salons in London that featured his most respectable acquaintances during the season, made a suitable match, and been someone's little wife by now. Likely she would have become a mother as well, the only consolation in the bleak picture that presented itself to her when she imagined what might have been. The prospect of marriage held nothing for her anymore. Willoughby had taught her that, though she could be persuaded to feel lust-that wolf that often wears the sheep's clothing of love-for a man, even the greatest and most tragic of stories in her life, her seduction and impregnation and subsequent fall from grace, could not really break her heart. The love she'd felt for him was always weak, though bolstered at the last by her own desperation and longing to be respectable again, and as soon as she birthed her daughter she knew that she couldn't bear the thought of really marrying him, being his wife, obeying him and following at his heels like a lapdog. Having a child was the greatest blessing of her life, and she silently thanked God that it had come with no marital strings attached-and then immediately caught herself. Her indiscretion was surely not Godly, nor was her failing the good Colonel and bringing shame upon him. What was wrong with her? Had she no sense of decency? Was she really thanking God that her life had come to this?

And yet-and yet. She heard Charity stirring inside the foyer, Mrs. Bhatt fussing with her, no doubt encouraging her to put on her tiny little coat and boots before stepping out into the cold to see Mummy. She smiled to herself. She was comfortable here, with the Bhatts caring for her more like parents than like servants, with Mr. and Mrs. Ferrars and their boy so close at hand, with her dear Colonel and his new lovely wife up at the big house on the hill, with her sweet Charity, and with this, a moment of solitude and steaming tea and the chill of late winter. She was happy. Was it possible that happiness, even purchased with sin and vice, could bode ill for a soul?

Stumbling into her reverie came Charity, all toddling limbs and bouncing curls. She climbed up into the swing. "Is that my dolly?" she asked.

"Yes, darling. Hadn't you better go in where it is warm? I will be but a few more minutes, and then we can have breakfast." She kissed the top of the little girl's darkening blond curls.

"But Mummy, I saw a carriage."

"A carriage, darling? In your dream?"

"No-a carriage."

Mrs. Bhatt, wearing about seven cloaks and the thickest mittens Eliza had ever seen to combat the decidedly non-Indian weather, emerged from the warmth of the house to refresh Eliza's tea. "Out the window upstairs, dear. She is right. I believe it is the Colonel's carriage."

Eliza smiled. "Ah. They are back."

"Mummy, can I go see them?"

"Dearest, I am sure that we will see them soon enough. Let's let them get settled in before we burst in upon their peace and quiet, hmm?" Eliza entreated sternly.

"Alright." Charity huffed and crossed her arms in toddler irritation, watching with only mild interest as the final stitches on the doll were complete. Eliza knotted the thread and tore off the end with her teeth, placed the needle in a pincushion, and handed the doll to her daughter. Charity, now delighted, felt the soft fabric of the doll's dress-velvet taken from an old waistcoat the Colonel had given her to make use of in her crafts-and began to croon to it and cradle it in her arms like a baby. But when a noise from down the hill was heard, woman and child alike started, and Charity, clutching the doll in one hand, jumped down off the swing, heedless of her mother's presence for a moment, and ran in the direction of the carriage which now appeared to be making its way directly for Eliza's cottage.

The driver, Mitchell, tipped his hat to Eliza as he slowed down in front of her. Charity danced expectantly by the door, and then suddenly Brandon burst out and scooped her up in his arms. He looked completely transformed. Eliza noted that he appeared to have put on a little weight, not an unhealthy amount, but enough to soften the features of his face; his arms were relaxed, less rigid than his wont; his back, still straight and strong, looked as though it pained him less, despite what must have been a long journey by carriage. He held little Charity up in his arms and dangled her, making a fuss to look over her and make sure she was alright, then suddenly let go of her before catching her, causing her to shriek in delight.

As she did so, Marianne Brandon emerged from the carriage. The young woman had appeared a little uncertain and unused to her new state of being when Eliza had last seen her. But she too had changed. There was a new gravity to her features, a wise twinkle that glinted in her eyes, a wry smile that reminded Eliza (she realized) of Brandon's own. She looked like a gentleman's wife now-her clothes were fine and obviously new, as were her boots, and her bonnet was enviable-Eliza would have to study it later and find out how to replicate its decor on one of her own. In short-marriage appeared to be suiting both of them quite well.

Marianne made a beeline for Eliza, crying out, "We are sorry to call so early-but we felt we must see if you were awake, and pay a visit. We've missed you so!" And she embraced Eliza like a sister. Eliza found herself surprisingly choked up.

"Surely you have not tired of one another's company," Eliza chided, laughing.

"No, not at all. But that has not stopped us from longing to be near our dear friends," Marianne answered, her native candour and sincerity blending with the new maturity with which she carried herself.

"Have you been by the parsonage yet?" Eliza asked, picking up the tea tray from the table and gesturing for Marianne to accompany her indoors. They heard the Colonel and Charity chattering behind them, and the colonel directing Mitchell to drive on-that he and his wife had decided to take advantage of the weather being so much finer than it had been on the continent, and to walk the rest of the way.

"No, we have not. I long to see Elinor-how is she?"

"She appears to be well-but you will have to see for yourself," Eliza replied cryptically. Marianne gave her a quizzical look. Soon, though, she was distracted by the Bhatts, who greeted her and offered her a repast. Eliza repeated the invitation, and on behalf of herself and her husband, Marianne accepted, and settled down in the cottage's small parlor to await the announcement that breakfast was ready.

"Have you ridden up from London at this early hour?"

"My husband and I have both determined that, all things considered, since we have no particular business there, well-we both hate London. We decided not to stop the night there, but took rest in the carriage and came straight here."

"Hate London? But it is so very diverting! Though, I concede I do generally prefer the quiet of the country."

"Quite. And though we have not tired of each other, we find that we've both tired of travelling. A honeymoon, Eliza, is exhausting."

"I can imagine so," replied Eliza wryly, sipping her tea.

"I mean," Marianne explained, blushing, "there is so much to see and do, and one feels almost guilty if one doesn't see and do everything. After a few days of it, it's nice to imagine oneself safe in the comfort of home."

"Well, welcome home to Delaford, then."

Marianne smiled broadly, delighted. "I thank you."

"So what all did you see and do, then?" Eliza asked as Brandon joined them in the parlor, Charity in tow.

Charity joined in. "Did you see a dragon? Or a sea monster?"

"Alas, no. Have you learned about them in your picture books?"

"Yes. I love them. I want a pet dragon."

"What have you done to this child?" Brandon asked, bemused.

"You bought her those books," Eliza rolled her eyes.

"And you read them to her. Fueling her imagination beyond reason," he egged Eliza on, tickling Charity's belly.

"It never hurt anyone to be a little imaginative, did it?" Marianne asked.

"What did you do, anyway? Dragons or lack thereof notwithstanding," Eliza pressed.

"Oh, let's see. We stopped in Avignon-" Eliza shuddered.

Brandon chimed in with, "And it was exactly as uncomfortable as you'd warned." Eliza managed a smug smile.

"And then we made our way through Switzerland, and Germany, and finally into Austria-and we met the most interesting people-"

Brandon said, "like that chap in Switzerland-Frankenstein-"

"Oh, yes-very strange. He was a student, he said, having dinner at the inn where we were staying in Geneva. He took some time to speak with us, practice his English. He took us on a walk around the city, where we saw the most beautiful vistas, lovely mountain views-"

"Until it started raining," Brandon added.

"Yes-and then it was when things started getting really odd. He began to talk about nature, and our part in it, and intimated that he'd started thinking about his own part in the world and wondering whether men could be like gods, taking their own roles in creation, and whether they should-I'd never heard anything so Romantic-"

"It was quite a surprise to me, my love, that you didn't jump off and leave me for him," Brandon chuckled. "It seems like your sort of thing."

Marianne shuddered. "No, he was too odd for me. Much too odd. Even...almost frightening. Anyway, then we left Geneva, and made our way west-we saw some lovely castles, and some lovely bits of country-so many mountains! And everything was bathed in snow-I don't think I have ever seen so much snow! It's a wonder we didn't freeze to death!"

"And then, finally, we arrived at our final destination."

"And you liked Vienna?" Eliza prodded.

"Oh, yes," Marianne answered breathily, trailing off. "We met Herr Beethoven."

"Who?" Eliza asked, shrugging her shoulders.

"A newish composer. Marianne fell in love. Here," Brandon thrust a sheet of music towards Eliza from inside his coat. "She's been trying to commit this to memory since Dover, though she's had nothing to play it on. It's quite adorable, her hands moving up and down on an invisible pianoforte in the silence of the carriage."

Eliza raised her eyebrows at the composition. "Fascinating."

"And we learned the waltz," Marianne added, snapping herself out of her reverie.

"Whatever is that?"

"Here, I shall show you," Brandon answered. "Charity, may I have this dance?"

Charity, giggling, held out her arms for Bamba to dance with her, but he surprised her by placing his left hand at her waist and telling her to step on his feet. "Maestro, may we have some music?"

And Marianne, laughing, began to hum a tune in three-quarter time, while Brandon and his partner whirled around. Eliza was utterly delighted. "How wonderful!"

Marianne smiled. "He is, isn't he?"

Just then, there was a knock at the door, and soon Mrs. Bhatt entered the parlor. "Mr. and Mrs. Ferrars, Miss Williams. Breakfast will be ready presently."

"Elinor!" Marianne jumped up and ran into her sister's arms. Elinor staggered at the weight of her sister as the fullness of it nearly knocked her over.

"Gently, Marianne! Gently!" And Elinor unconsciously changed her posture, placing a hand instinctively against her own stomach, in a way that made Marianne stand back and stare her sister hard in the face.

The surreptitious look of pride and pleasure that Elinor gave her caused Marianne to embrace her all the more, but tenderly this time. "Oh, Elinor. How happy I am to see you."

"And you, dearest," Elinor replied. "Are you...well?" She looked meaningfully at Marianne as she asked this.

"I'm...oh. No. That is to say, I am not unwell. There has been no change to my health," Marianne answered quietly.

Edward, to whom Charity had transferred some of her interest as she now clung to his leg in a hug, explained their presence: "Elinor wanted to bring over some of the raisin scones we were given. It seems that Mrs. Price from the village is very eager to thank me for christening her newest little one last week, so she's spent every waking moment since then baking up a storm. We couldn't possibly eat all of them, so we brought some to share."

"And with perfect timing!" Elinor interjected. "So good to see the two of you! I take it your honeymoon went well?"

Brandon's eyes met his wife's then, and the heat of his gaze in that split second was enough to cause a sudden warmth to ignite in her core. Then he smiled, somewhat bashfully. "It certainly seems to have been a success. We've traipsed around half of Europe."

They made their way into the dining room as Brandon and Marianne retold their sister- and brother-in-law of their travels. Eliza sat Charity in a high chair and presided over the small feast, scones and tea and coffee and ham and fried eggs. It did her heart good to be so surrounded by friends, and it was certainly good for Charity. She took a backseat here as the foursome chatted amiably, the newlyweds detailing the most entertaining points of their travels, and the clergyman and his wife explaining all the happenings of the parish in their absence.

As they dabbed at their mouths with napkins in the wake of their meal, and Brandon listened to Edward regale him with a tale of a dispute between two of the tenant farmers over a patch of woodland that would have to be reconciled, Marianne was heard to quietly ask her sister, "Does Edward know?"

Elinor shook her head. "I want to be sure. I'll meet with the doctor from the village this week, like last time, before I tell him. I have written to Mama to get her advice, and she agrees with me."

"Will you write to her again soon, to come and visit?"

"I had thought about it," Elinor admitted. "It would be quite nice to have her about."

"And we did promise to invite Margaret back soon, too, did we not?"

At this, Eliza's hand shook where it held her cup, and she spilled an infinitesimal amount of tea into her saucer. She did not know why.

"It would be lovely to have them for Easter again," Elinor agreed.

"Oh, just think of it!" Marianne clapped her hands together excitedly. "I think we shall have them both here. And maybe-oh, I shall regret suggesting this, but maybe we shall invite Sir John and his family, as well. Our first party. Well, at least, my first party as...as a wife. Oh dear, I already feel that I am behind in preparations."

Elinor laughed. "Don't bite off more than you can chew, dearest. You have yet to really take on your role as mistress of Delaford, and you're already planning something grand! Remember that the Middletons are our friends. They'll understand if you're not ready to invite them. They'll also understand if your first party is simple."

Marianne rose up to her full height at the table, and said, "I think you underestimate me, Elinor. I intend to prove you wrong now, just to spite you," and she smirked as Elinor rolled her eyes.

"Have it your way, dear. Just let me know if there is anything I can do to aid you in your preparations. I don't want you working yourself into a frenzy...oh...oh dear." Elinor covered her mouth with her hand, looking desperately up at Eliza, who stood immediately.

"Come, come," Eliza whispered to Elinor, and gently helped her up from the table. The two women disappeared from the dining room.

Barely making it to the washroom in time, Elinor bent herself over a bucket and began to retch, all of her good-feeling this morning dissipating as she realized that perhaps she had not been well enough to travel. It had been hard enough to conceal from Edward the past couple of weeks what her suspicions were, without adding sickness to the mix. But here it was, and it could not be helped. To Eliza, who rubbed her back with a soothing hand, she merely said, "Thank you," not able to meet her eyes as another wave of nausea overcame her.

"Was it this bad the last time?" Eliza asked.

"No-no, it was not," Elinor answered, her breathing laboured. "It was so mild. William has caused me so little trouble, throughout everything, that it's as if he's taken care of himself. But this one...this one…" And she retched again.

Eliza couldn't help but let her mind wander, as she helped Elinor to wash her face and find her balance and composure once again. Margaret might be invited. In no time at all-Easter was only a few weeks away-

Margaret was such a dear friend. Her laughter, her sparkling eyes, her sense of humour, her attention to Eliza's interests and pursuits, her bravery and candour, the way she played with Charity-every bit as energetic and excited by the child as Brandon was-Eliza couldn't help but feel herself lucky to have cultivated the slightly younger woman's companionship as she had. Thankfulness-that was it-thankfulness, and the thrill of seeing a dear new friend, with all the depth of feeling one would experience at the thought of seeing an old friend-these emotions were what caused Eliza's heart to give an anticipatory flutter, her breath to catch in her throat. Eliza had always longed for a sister, and the sisterly affection of the two Dashwood women, now a Ferrars and a Brandon, showed her that the third Dashwood and she must share something like their sisterly bond. Was that it? Certainly.

Meanwhile, in the dining room, Edward noticed that his wife was missing. "Oh, she has-I think she and Eliza have gone to look at some new bolts of fabric in the morning room," Marianne lied quickly. Just then, the other women reemerged, both with shaky uneasiness about them if you looked really closely. But Edward was preoccupied with his discussion with Brandon, and didn't notice just then.

Soon, the sun rising higher in the sky, Brandon looked at his wife expectantly, and she rose to leave. "I think it is time we make our way back to the house. We have a lot of unpacking to do."

"Yes-and I am quite looking forward to stretching my legs, and then perhaps taking a nice, long nap."

They all exited Eliza's cottage, saying goodbye to its inhabitants, and Elinor and Edward were walked most of the way back to the parsonage by the Brandons, for whom it was on the way. Saying farewell to them for the time being (Marianne once more hugging her sister gently to her), they finally began their ascent to the mansion house.

"It finally feels real, doesn't it? This is our life now," Marianne mused.

"Yes. I think so. Although for my part, I don't know if I'll ever really believe I'm not living in the most wonderful dream." Brandon smiled down at his wife, who had taken his arm. She squeezed it, and they continued walking, until they came to the part of the path that led somewhere familiar.

Marianne took the lead and suggested with her body language that they take a detour. "We should visit it. It's such a dear place, now."

"As you like." Together they strode away from the path and headed toward the ruined pavilion, the place where they had taken shelter from the rain those few months ago. "You know, every moment I spent here with you that night, before you indicated that you wanted me to kiss you- I burned for you," he narrated softly as they reached the first column.

She smiled to herself, lost in the memory. "If you had not been so damnably attractive, standing there in the lightning in your shirtsleeves-I don't know that I would have had the courage."

"I thank God every day that you did," he replied, all seriousness as he gazed down at her. "Marianne-" his voice caught in his throat, he could do nothing but take her in his arms and bury his face in the soft hair that was gathered up into a bun.

"Christopher, we should go home," she murmured into his chest, the longing building up in her once again as she marveled at the tenderness of his arms around her.

"Yes. We ought to," he replied. And then he looked into her arms, searching her eyes for any sign of regret or disappointment in him-and finding none-and bending down to take her mouth with his own-when, once again, as they had the last time, they heard hoofbeats in the near distance.

"Colonel Brandon! Colonel Brandon! Welcome back to Delaford-and just at the right time-for there is an emergency! You must come at once!" It was Williston, Brandon's stable master, running toward them, an abandoned cart and a boy jumping off a black stallion completing the scene behind him.

"Every time," Brandon groaned. He gathered his wits about him and disengaged himself from Marianne's arms.

As Williston got closer "I've brought the cart around-all I could saddle up in time-so I can drive Mrs. Brandon back to the house. Jacobs has Othello ready here. Come. You must come at once."

Brandon, alarmed, apologized to Marianne with his eyes. "I will return to you as soon as I am able, my love," he murmured before jumping onto the stallion and following Williston's hasty directions. Flummoxed, Marianne allowed herself to be handed up into the cart, Williston and Jacobs, the stable boy, riding in front as they deposited her in front of the mansion house and handed her down. Just like that they left her, and she wrestled with the indignity of running off after them before finally deciding to go in, make herself at home, and have another cup of tea while she waited on her husband's return.


	2. Wasting Time

At first it seemed impossible that this particular errand could really be constituted as an emergency-after all, it wasn't as if Calliope hadn't whelped before-but when Brandon got to the stables, he thanked his lucky stars that he'd arrived back at Delaford when he did.

Apparently at some point in the night, Calliope, his best hunting bitch and a loyal and sweet girl to boot, had begun what would be a very difficult labour; it was still happening. The veterinarian who lived two villages over had been sent for, but Jacobs, the boy who'd ridden out for him, had returned crestfallen-Lord Ashbury's stallion had just taken a bad fall and had a leg that needed setting, so there was not an ounce of help to be had from that front, the peer being of course a higher priority. So, Mr. Taylor, Brandon's kennelmaster, had sent Williston and Jacobs posthaste to find Brandon, whom he'd heard had just arrived, to apprise him of his options.

Brandon rushed into the kennel to the sound of Hephaestus, his big, bullish mutt, barking and howling at the highest volume where he stood in the corner of Calliope's pen. It was overwhelming. Making eye contact with the vaguely panicked kennelmaster who hovered outside of the pen, Brandon gritted his teeth, strode over to the pregnant pup's bowl of water, dunked a nearby rag in, and shook the rag at where Hephaestus stood, soaking him with water. The dog was shocked into silence. "Hush," Brandon reinforced. "Out." He pointed to the corridor that ran out to the door of the kennel, and, whimpering in protest, Hephaestus nevertheless obeyed-but Brandon could tell from the snuffling sounds he heard that the big dog was still nearby.

"Thank you. That mutt ought to be shot. He listens to no one, except you of course, master."

"Yes, well, let's hear it. What seems to be her state?"

Brandon knelt down, having taken off his coat and gloves and hung them over the half-open barn door. He rolled up his sleeves. Taylor explained that Calliope seemed to have given up-in the thirty or forty minutes it had taken him to step over to the stables and consult with Jacobs and Williston on the dog's elongated labour, sweet Callie had suddenly gone from a willing participant in the struggle to give birth to her pups, to a listless thing that looked near death.

Brandon quailed inwardly to think of his sweetest dog suffering so, but asked, for practicality's sake, "Has she born any pups yet?"

"Not yet."

Brandon cringed. "Then we must try to save them, at the least."

Over the next three or four hours, he and Taylor worried over Callie-trying to walk her, to coax her into contractions; rubbing her belly; offering her a few fingers of whiskey-until finally, with a great heave, she produced one pup-still in its caul. She simply stared at it, making no effort to remove it so that the tiny creature could breathe. Growing frightened for the pup's life, Brandon scrambled to remove the caul and free its head and body-a male, it was. As he did this, Taylor was preoccupied-there seemed to be another pup following immediately on the first one's heels. This one too was completely ignored by Callie, who simply lowered her head in agonized frustration. Brandon handed the newest pup to Taylor, who freed her from her sac, while Brandon lifted up Callie's head and put it in his lap. Stroking her, crooning at her, his heart nearly broke when she closed her eyes, and her breath left her. Calliope was gone.

Just then they heard a scramble at the door, and a great howl. Hephaestus was eager to get in. Did he know? It seemed, thought Brandon, that he knew. Feeling that it was no matter now, he called for the big dog, who came back into the pen and whimpered softly. He nuzzled at poor Callie, who lay calm and quiet after a hard night and day, at peace finally. Then, to Brandon's surprise, he went back to the same corner where he'd stood watch earlier. He began to bark again. Was he trying to tell them something?

Brandon lay Callie's head down, stroking her once more, and then walked over to where Hephaestus stood. The corner contained a bowl where Callie's food had been placed, as well as some brushes and other grooming tools in a large crate. Hephaestus was nosing around behind the crate, and Brandon shoved it to one side-

Somehow, between the two of them, Callie and Hephaestus had taken another pup, one that must have been born in the interim when Taylor had left the kennel to find help, and placed it here for safety, in the dark corner. Or maybe the little thing had crawled. Whatever the case, it was the smallest of the three-not even the length of Brandon's hand, and weak. Hephaestus licked it, trying to coax it into action, and it wiggled a little, but could not move much more than that. Brandon found his heart once more gripped with the ache of loss; first Callie, and now perhaps her pup would die as well. The two other whelps were fine and strong-they'd need to be nursed, since their mother passed, but they'd be fine, Taylor said. He and his wife would look after them, for they had a bitch at home who'd just whelped and would have milk to spare. But this one-it was not unlikely that it would soon join its mother.

"Go home, master. There's nothing you can do for this one. I'll begin digging a hole for Callie in the back-this one will join her soon. You ought to rest. You've just had a hard journey."

"No-we can bury Callie tomorrow. You go home, too. Mrs. Taylor will wonder where you are just as much as Mrs. Brandon will wonder about me. And-and I think I'll take this little one with me."

"With you?"

"Maybe... maybe with a little milk, some care-maybe…"

Taylor shook his head at the hopelessness of the situation, but agreed, and began to gather his coat and hat. "By the way-I suppose you know-these pups-"

"Yes. They're not purebred, I know. They're sired by Hephaestus."

The kennelmaster nodded. "Sorry-he must have gotten to her the day she escaped. I blame myself, entirely. They're worthless, I suppose," he reflected, bowing his head.

"No-not worthless," Brandon mumbled, looking at the tiny helpless thing in his hand. He grabbed his own coat-they'd used every spare cloth in the kennel in the process of helping Callie's last brave effort, and his coat was the only dry thing he could find-and used it to wrap up the pup so she wouldn't freeze on the walk back to the house. Nestling her close to his own body, he strode home in his shirtsleeves, waving goodbye to Taylor as he veered off toward his own cottage on the property.

Herriton opened the door for him, having been waiting-it was now almost eight at night, dark and cold and dreary-and saw him with his arms wrapped around something apparently living, but barely. He ordered a bowl of milk-and then, as an afterthought, ordered himself a dinner of bread and butter, and asked after Marianne, who had eaten, he was informed, and who was in the drawing room waiting on his return.

He was filthy, he knew, and thought a minute as to whether he should go up and change before intruding on his lovely wife's presence-but knew he owed her an explanation for his long absence, so he turned the door handle and opened it immediately.

Marianne lay there on the divan, fully dressed, with a blanket strewn over her legs and a book opened facedown on her breast which rose and fell in sleep. Once again, as had happened a thousand thousand times since he had met her, he was struck dumb by her beauty. The fact of their marriage acted as a balm on his hurting heart, so raw and tender with the loss of his dog, and he leaned against the doorframe as the breath caught in his lungs. He felt tears prickle at the edges of his eyes, and bent over the bundle in his arms, intent to do all he could to help the puppy-or at least ease her passing by making certain she was gently cared for in her last moments. Turning to go, however, he was stopped-

"Christopher?" Marianne's sleepy voice murmured. "Is everything alright? I have been worried sick."

"Marianne, I-" She began to sit up, and then saw the look of pained determination on his face.

"What has happened?"

He told her, and she came to him, and they sat on the rug by the fire together as she took the little bundle from his tired arms. The servants discovered that he had not taken to his rooms but had instead joined his wife here, and brought his supper along with the milk for the pup. Marianne asked for tea as well, and together they did their best for the little beast, taking turns tempting her with fingers dipped into milk. A jug of water was brought by the fire with some old rags, and Marianne dipped water into the heated liquid and mimicked the warmth of a mother's tongue, cleaning her off carefully and gently. They finally ascended the stairs. Brandon watched the pup while Marianne asked Bess to help her into her night things and to find an empty basket. Layering the basket with some thickly folded towels and an old shirt of Brandon's which would hold his comforting scent, Marianne made a little bed for the pup, where she laid her near the fire by Brandon's comfortable chairs and bookshelves in his bedroom.

"I'm sorry this has not been the intimate homecoming you'd wished for," he whispered, laying the little creature in her new basket and stroking her head gently.

"My love, all I want is your happiness. If there's anything else I can do-"

"No, Marianne. In fact-you ought to go to bed. You're exhausted. I'll stay up. I might try her on some more milk in a while. I'll go down and bring my collected post-I have a feeling I will have a lot to see to. I'll work in here, if you'd like to have the privacy of your own chamber, where it's darker, less busy"

"If it's all the same to you-I would rather remain in here with you."

"You would?"

"I might sleep, Christopher, but...but we haven't been apart, and-and I think I'd find it quite lonely."

Her honesty, and the sentiment she expressed, touched him. He kissed her forehead. "Then stay. I'll never ask you to leave unless you want to."

Kissing his lips, she walked over to his big white bed and crawled in, drawing the thick covers up around her. Within minutes she was asleep. Brandon waited to hear the change in her breathing, and then, leaving the small dog for the time being, tiptoed down to his study to the large pile of correspondence that awaited him. Gathering it up, he returned to his room where he worked the rest of the night, occasionally stopping to try the puppy on some more milk.

As dawn approached Marianne awoke, surprised to find herself in a bed that was familiar to her after so many nights of change. Sitting up, she saw her husband slumped in his chair in front of the half-dead fire. A few neat piles of letters were scattered on the table beside him. On his lap was a tiny puppy-and it was moving, blindly and hungrily investigating Brandon's torso for teats or some other thing that might provide food. It was very much alive.

Marianne delicately picked up the animal and brought her to the bowl of milk, where she allowed her to drink from her bare hands. Setting her down in her basket, she awakened her husband so she could lead him from the chair to the bed. Blinking awake, he cast about for the pup.

"She's alright," his wife assured him, smiling.

Relief slowly dawning on his face, he looked up at his wife who tugged his hand and allowed himself to be led to bed.

"Will she be alright in her basket there for now, you think?" he asked as he climbed in.

"I think so. She just took some milk. She is full and sleepy just now, I think. I lay down some towels for her, should she emerge from the basket to relieve herself."

"Thank you. Thank you, Marianne." He gathered his wife up into his arms, drowsiness coming back to him instantly now he was in the warm comfort of the bed. "I think she will never be as strong as her brother and sister."

"No-she is a delicate little thing, isn't she?"

"Quite." He yawned. "I thought...I thought you could name her, if she lived."

"Me?"

"Yes. If you like."

"I think...I think Daphne would suit her. Daphne was stronger than she seemed, too. Do you like it?"

He smiled against her shoulder. "I think you knew I would like it. You know about my penchant for those old Greek stories."

"You never stopped to think that I might like them too."

"I never did. Is that the name you choose?"

"Yes-it is."

"Then Daphne she shall be," he said, just before drifting off to sleep.


	3. Fields of Gold

*NOTE: I have been going back through my fics and I think I have switched from Edward being named a curate at Delaford, to being named a vicar. I think the novel leaves this matter uncertain, but vicar makes more sense since presumably he acquires a living from Colonel Brandon's estate immediately and not conditionally upon someone else's retirement, so vicar he shall be henceforth. (Sorry-American lapsed Catholic here, trying to figure out the intricacies of CofE church hierarchies.) And while I'm at it, I TRY to be consistent with British English spelling, but sometimes my American spell check automatically "fixes" something and I don't notice it. Alas. Not that I'm trying to achieve a perfect match to Austen's language (for there are some things in my fics that Austen would not EVER say), but still-it helps me try to get the voices in my head lined up in a way that makes sense. That sounds like I'm insane. Hmmm…

It was a Saturday evening, less than a week since the Brandons' return to the estate, and Edward Ferrars sat in the tiny but well-appointed study going over his notes for tomorrow morning's sermon. The particular text from Corinthians troubled him in its wording, and he wished he could explain his doubts to a congregation largely unfamiliar with the idiosyncrasies of Greek grammar-but, he thought, the gist of his interpretation was sound.

The life of a vicar-much more complex and intellectually demanding than what he'd originally hoped for, a simple profession that would allow him to be of help to people who were in need. But this life had permitted him to marry his beloved Elinor-against all odds-and to be nearest to the people whom he cared for most in the world. And speaking of Elinor-where was she?

His wife had begged off from tea, complaining of illness, for (he calculated) the third time this week. As he did not remain at home during the day, but walked up and down the country lanes and into the village regularly to tend to the myriad needs of his parishioners while Elinor kept house and looked after William, he realized now that he wasn't sure if she'd taken adequate nutrition this whole week. Glancing one final time at his sermon, he capped the ink and replaced the quill on his desk and made for the chambers he shared with his wife and son.

William he saw immediately upon entering, for his cradle was placed within eyesight of the door that led into the sitting room adjoining the bedchamber. The babe slept healthily, a tiny snore emerging from his pouty lips and catching Edward's breath in his throat. He stole over to the cradle silently, ogling this beautiful child who blended Elinor's lovely features so perfectly with his own, leaving him no doubt that this, here, was his own son, his heir, his hope for the future. He was proof to the world, or at least the little corner of the world he inhabited, that Elinor Dashwood was now his wife-after all the longing and hardship they had endured-and that their love had been made manifest. Edward felt closer to God, felt as if he may just begin to understand the love that God held for his own children, now having one of his own. His reverie was broken up, however, by a sound from the other room.

Following the sound, he pushed the door open to the bedchamber, where Elinor lay on the bed-clearly in discomfort, whimpering quietly so as not to disturb anyone. Immediately he came to sit beside her. "Elinor! Whatever is the matter, my love! You've not eaten-are you ill in truth?"

"Oh, Edward-" Elinor looked at her husband, fear in her eyes. "I fear-I fear that I am ill, yes."

Edward's heart stopped for a beat or two. His voice coming out hollow, he asked, "Will you tell me the source of your affliction, my dear?"

"I'm-Edward, I think-I believe that I am with child again."

And just as suddenly as it had stopped, his heart began to beat with a wildness against his ribs. After a moment, smiling tentatively, he reached out for her hand. "Oh, my love-this-this is wonderful!"

Elinor took a shaky breath. "I am not certain-I wanted to wait another week to see if- but it seems I cannot avoid the truth any longer."

Edward's heart, buoyed by the news of a second child to come, sank a little at Elinor's tone. "Are you not-has this made you unhappy, my love?"

She smiled wanly. "I am happy-of course. Nothing could make me happier than to give you another child, and for William to have a playmate-it's only that-well, it's so soon."

Edward cringed inwardly. The doctor, in examining baby William immediately after his birth, had advised the Ferrars couple on the appropriate amount of time to wait before having relations once again so that Elinor could properly heal-and Edward admitted to himself that he had been counting the days, and gave her no leeway. Not that she had been an unwilling participant when he'd had her at last after so many weeks of frustrated lust-in truth, she had initiated things-but still, he ought to have exerted more self-control. The fact that he'd been assured by the doctor that nursing the new babe ought to have a limiting impact on her fertility was immaterial-it was a chance he'd still taken, and now would have to live with Elinor's disappointment as a result.

"I'm sorry-we ought to have taken measures-Elinor, please forgive me."

"No, no-Edward-that is, I am not unhappy about this. A child so close to William in age will be a blessing. Just think of how they will play and grow together. It's only that I am just now getting used to motherhood, and to think that soon I will have to double my efforts-and-and also, I think...I was not quite so ill the last time, was I?"

Edward shook his head. "Is this why you have not eaten? Elinor, you must conserve your strength, and eat more, not less, if the baby is to be healthy, mustn't you?"

With dry humour she asserted, "Don't think I haven't tried. The eating itself isn't the problem. It's just that I can't seem to hold anything down once it's been eaten."

"Anything?"

"A little tea, perhaps, and some broth-but otherwise, it's been difficult."

"For how long has this...this sickness taken hold of you?"

"Three weeks or so."

"Elinor-you could have told me."

"I wanted to be sure. I didn't want you worrying over me. You've got enough to contend with."

It was true-between the sermons and the odd wedding or christening, organising the Easter fete which was fast approaching, visiting the sick and elderly of the parish, keeping up with the Colonel and his needs and desires for how his parish ought to run (though his demands were few and his taste immaculate), and his latest project, as yet a secret from all but the Colonel himself, the building and eventual staffing of a girls' school to compliment the boys' school in the village, Edward was exhausted each night when he came home. He gave as much love and attention to his wife and son as he could muster, but there was no doubt he had never slept more soundly in his life, his energy completely depleted at the end of each day. But still-if anything should happen to his wife while he was too preoccupied to notice-would he ever forgive himself? Would any of those other matters, trifling by comparison, even register with him any longer?

"Elinor-you must promise to tell me, always, if there is something important on your mind that concerns us. I will always make time for our family. This family is the center of my whole world here." He stretched out to lay next to her, holding her in his arms, her golden hair glinting in the late-evening remnants of sunlight. He stroked her back and side and placed a kiss on the top of her head, feeling the reality sink in that once again, nestled within the sweet core of her body, grew a child that she had made with him. Kissing her lips chastely, he vowed silently to see her through this. He must.

After cradling her to him for some time, he got up and fetched their servant, Mrs. Collier. There must be something in this house that she could eat. If they had to turn the whole larder inside out to find it, they would do so.


	4. I Go Through

Margaret Dashwood, smushed up against the corner of Sir John's carriage, rounded the corner into Colonel Brandon's expansive property. Her heart gave a flutter.

It wasn't that she was nervous to be here. That would be ridiculous, she reflected. She had been here before, and everyone was so kind-from the journey she'd made here for Elinor's wedding, to the visits leading up to Marianne's inevitable marriage to the Colonel. This was simply another in a long line of obligations to appease her sisters' need for society. It was a good thing she liked her sisters.

Because this time there was an added thing that made the visit different. Mrs. Jennings, since the wedding of Marianne a few months before, had not stopped talking about getting her married off.

"There it is, the manor house," the large, bustling woman reverberated next to her. "And in just a couple of short days, you'll be going to your first ball. It is too much excitement to be borne. Mary, you must allow me to help the girl get ready."

Mary Dashwood nodded her head, gracious. "Your solicitation is always appreciated." Margaret's mother was almost reverential to the Middleton family since the wedding, believing that without them, it was possible Marianne would never have met anyone and would have been a spinster all her days following her desertion by Mr. Willoughby. Now that it seemed another match might be made, this time between her youngest daughter and some man or other in the Colonel's neighborhood, Mary was positively twinkling with excitement. Margaret realized that it was the happiest, and youngest, that her mother had looked since before her father had died.

"Ugh. I still wish you'd let me leave off the ball. I'd much rather...rather…" The truth was that Margaret would rather do just about anything.

"Nonsense, Margaret," chirped Sir John's wife, Lady Middleton, gently. "You will be splendid. You've grown up quite a lovely girl. You'll have no trouble finding a suitable husband. Heavens, we might be able to have you married off even before the Season, and save you a journey to London!"

But Margaret longed to go to London. And to Vienna, and Avignon, and Paris, like her sister, and to Calcutta and Pondicherry and Cairo and New York and Charleston and the icy wilderness of Canada and the jungles of Africa… Anywhere, literally anywhere, other than a ball.

The families emerged from the carriage onto the lawn in front of Delaford's big house, and there, smiling with outstretched arms, waited Marianne, with Christopher's arm wrapped around her. Margaret rushed forward ahead of her mother and everyone to embrace her sister. "Hello, my dear girl," Marianne murmured. She had taken on that look that Elinor wore now, that look of being wise, and loved, and very, very married. Christopher embraced her too, and then both of them commenced to greeting all of their other guests.

It was an unseasonably warm evening, and no one rushed inside, though it was nearing the hour for dinner and everyone needed to go in and change clothing. Sir John's booming laugh could be heard roaring over them, at something that someone had said-likely laughing at his own joke. Margaret wandered off alone for a minutes, inspecting the blooms in the formal garden just to the east of the house. Something was missing. Someone.

Suddenly she was not alone. Colonel Brandon himself had moseyed next to her, studying a patch of pansies. "Captain Margaret," he began, "you've never been one to fall into melancholy fits in the garden."

"Unlike my sister," she smirked.

"Best take care, then," he bantered back. "Look what befell your sister. She's stuck married to an old dotard." He plucked a dried, dead leaf off a healthy plant. "In all seriousness, is there something on your mind? Are you apprehensive about something? You've not been your usual boisterous self in the past few minutes."

Margaret paused and thought. "For starters, I'm not Captain Margaret anymore. I'm quite grown now."

"Quite," he smiled, looking down at her from the miles and miles above her where he stood-he really was quite tall.

"And-well, I'm not certain about this ball business, Colonel. I'd really rather not go."

"But you are, as you've said, grown."

"Yes-and don't grown people get to make their own decisions?"

He nodded thoughtfully. Then he said, "Is it the dancing that you are afraid of? Or the company?"

"Er-" She blushed.

"Has Mrs. Jennings given you the impression that you are to find a husband at this ball?"

Her blush deepened, and she wanted to bury her face in her frock and disappear like a frightened tortoise.

Brandon sat on one of the large rocks that bordered the flowerbed. "Do you want to find a husband?" he asked gingerly. He avoided her eyes as he said this.

After a moment's silence, she sat next to him and answered, "No."

"Ah." He plucked a pansy and twirled it in his fingers.

"Can I confess-I don't think-I told Marianne this, once, but I think she believes it was just a...just a sign of childishness. But I...I don't wish to marry. I don't think I will ever wish it."

Brandon looked out into the distance for a minute.

"And before you chastise me, I know that I will have to do it anyway, and make certain that Mama doesn't have to take care of a spinster daughter in her old age. I know it's a natural part of life for a young woman, but...I wish...I simply…"

"You want something more?"

"More…" She remembered all the stories he'd told her, before he'd begun courting Marianne in earnest-stories of adventure in the East, of battles and voyages and new people and languages and notions- "Yes. More."

Brandon turned to face the girl. "Miss Dashwood," he said, allowing her the full dignity of her title, "If there is anything I can do to assist you in this pursuit, I will do so. Not only for the love I bear your sister. I may not be able to save you from marriage, but...perhaps there is something."

"You won't tell Marianne we've spoken? Or especially Mama? I don't want her to think I've been whinging."

"Not a concern. Your secret is safe."

She smiled a little, and then her heart stopped.

The light tinkling laugh, like the tintinnabulation of a wind chime, carried across the early-spring breeze. Eliza's laugh.

"Ah, well, here's someone to cheer you up," Brandon announced, standing up.

Margaret held her smile and her dignity and stood, walking towards the sound.

Dear God, she was beautiful.

Hair of pure white gold; eyes smiling to shake hands with Sir John, to lightly embrace Lady Middleton who stiffened only slightly to be approached so by someone of so ignoble a reputation; a tall, graceful form, so perfect and angelic, it was idiotic to imagine her as anything other than an innocent maiden, until mayhap you saw her cherubic child so frequently clinging to her other hand and remembered that she was a mother-and then you remembered that lingering on her skin was a fragrance of danger, of the forbidden, enough to make you nearly swoon-

"Margaret!" she cried out briskly, and ran over to the young woman, embracing her. Margaret didn't notice, she told herself fiercely, the way Eliza's breasts pressed against her when they embraced, or the scent of lilac in her hair, or the softness of her skin. Whatever would possess her to notice these things?

"How are you, Eliza?" she chokes out.

"I am quite well," Eliza answers. The two step off to the side and walk, arm-in-arm, towards the house. "Your Mrs. Jennings tells me you're to attend your first ball soon?"

"Er, yes, I suppose I am."

"Now, that is something I have never had occasion to do. I do hope you'll let me help you get ready, and select your gown, and practice your hairstyle? Only, I was never...well, you see, I never got to go for my coming out, because…"

"I know, Eliza." Margaret found her heart fluttering, despite herself. "Perhaps having you to help me prepare wouldn't be so bad, after all."

"And do you know how to dance?"

"No-I never did learn. Mrs. Jennings said the Colonel promised to hire me a dancing master while I'm here."

"Yes, and I can practice with you as well-I'm quite good! Maybe we can teach Charity."

"Yes." _Yes, yes, yes, yes,_ thumped Margaret's heart.

And just like that, as they entered the foyer of the mansion house and handed off their wraps to the footman, Margaret began, in earnest, to look forward to a ball.


End file.
